


Come Live in My Heart, and Pay No Rent

by xsnarksthespot



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times they said I love you, and one time they couldn't.</p><p>
  <i>Slowly delivering a crooked smile down at the man in his lap, Porthos trails the calloused fingers of his free hand across Aramis’ eyebrows, down his cheek, along the curve of his jaw.  A minute ticks by without him saying a word. But his touch, and his stare, speak volumes in a language only Aramis can speak.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Live in My Heart, and Pay No Rent

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: I didn't put an archive death warning on this, because it's open-ended, but this is probably as close as I'll ever write to a death fic.**
> 
> That said, it's mostly sappy and angsty, with a healthy dash of humor. I just needed to muse purge so I could get back to finishing the two series' I have going.

The first time’s a bloody accident.

And it’s Porthos who feels the swell of emotion spill out into words, which is a pleasant surprise for Aramis, but more of an annoying inevitability for Porthos.

The surprising part is that he’s not drunk or dying. They’re not running for their lives. They’ve never even done anything remotely sinful with each other.

But Porthos would be lying to himself if he claimed the words are purely platonic when they come bursting out of his stupid gob.

They’re in the woods and it’s been raining off and on for days. The king has sequestered himself away in the palace, complaining about the weather (it is _drowning my very spirit_ , Captain!) so Treville gives them a few days off to get lost before they get themselves into trouble. They could be back in the barracks, _should_ be probably, playing cards and nursing bottles of wine. But they’re restless, and idiotic besides, so Athos shoves them towards the stables and insists they get out of his sight before he’s forced to gag them both.

They don’t intend to go far, hunt up some small game perhaps. Trudge back, cook up a humble meal and surround their grump of a friend with loud jokes and the weight of their arms over his forever heavy shoulders.

But it’s been hours now without dinner in sight and the rain has gone from bearably light to obnoxiously unrelenting. The animals are hiding, like any sane creature would. 

Aramis thinks he sees something furry streak down over a ridge next to a stream, so they sneak through the brush after it. He catches sight of the creature again and fires a round. He blames the rain when he misses, then blames Porthos when he smirks and says something about _excuses_. Aramis chases after the animal then, like he expects to show Porthos he can do better with his _hands_. 

Porthos startles a cowering flock of birds with his big booming laugh.

When he tumbles out into a small clearing with rain sluicing from his leathers, Aramis is mid-leap for the rabbit. He ends up belly-flopping into a mud pit, instead. It’s the way he looks up at Porthos then that tips the scale. Face caked in mud and a lopsided smile, sheepish laughter slipping through his teeth. That face, and the way his eyes are both seductively dark and impossibly bright, it burrows into Porthos’ chest. Burns into his memory. Leaves him struggling to remember how to breathe. As soon as he does, remember that is, he throws his head back and laughs.

Aramis makes everything brighter. Better. Golden. God help him, god help _everyone_ if he outlives this ridiculous human being.

“God, I love you.” 

It’s only a breathy murmur, as his laughter dims, and Aramis is a few yards away. But Porthos catches the way his eyebrows lift, the way his smile flickers and then pitches further sideways. He can’t help but tense a little, waiting for a teasing reply, waiting, _waiting_ \- it seems he’s always waiting for Aramis - but the smirking Musketeer only shuffles to his knees and flings a handful of mud at Porthos’ chest. There’s an inviting warmth in his squinting eyes that not even the rain can chill. 

Porthos lunges across the distance and shoves Aramis deep into the mud with the heated weight of his body, a thrill dancing up his spine at the strangled laugh he gets for his effort. 

Hours later, they shuffle soddenly through the garrison, bruised from wrestling and still half-caked in mud, but Porthos has never felt _lighter_. 

Which probably explains how Aramis gets the drop on him and he ends up butt first in a horse trough.

But he blames it on the rain, anyway.

* * *

“All right, Porthos. I’m going to make you a list. Stop me when you know what the common theme is,” Aramis whispers.

His words are strained. Broken puffs of white in the icy air. 

“Your hands. Your mad grin. How you lift your chin when anyone threatens you.”

Light flakes of snow land on Porthos’ back. They dissolve against the heat of his flesh where the fabric of his shirt is rucked up to expose half his spine.

“All that pride. And stubbornness. Good God, you can be so stubborn, Porthos.”

Aramis takes an unsteady breath. The silence of the frozen forest is deafening, and painful memories flicker behind his eyes, but he won’t break. He won’t call for Athos. He can do this alone.

He _must_ do this alone.

“Your compassion.” 

The careful progress of the needle is not careful enough to satisfy him, not careful enough by far. But neither is it fast enough. His hands tremble and he has to stop, close his eyes, and pray.

“...Your laughter,” he eventually says, steadier now as he imagines the sound of it. “You can’t possibly know how important your laughter is to me, Porthos. And your bravery. The…little v-shaped wrinkle you get between your eyebrows when you’re annoyed.”

Blood slicks up his fingers and the last few stitches are agonisingly slow.

“Your strength. Your _loyalty_. The way you get grumpy in the summer, like the sun is purposefully out to get you. How hopelessly awkward you are when you swim.” 

The silence is starting to be too much. Aramis feels tears prick at the back of his eyes and he blinks furiously, finishing his work with tense determination. He gingerly cleans the wound as best he can in these circumstances and sets about winding his sash around Porthos’ middle. Infection will be a concern, but he can’t think about that now. He can’t imagine the strongest man he knows festering and withering away in a bed somewhere, instead of struck down defending their king, with Aramis and Athos at his side. 

He grounds himself by curling a hand into Porthos’ curls. 

“You have to come back to us, Porthos.” Aramis leans down to press his shivering lips to Porthos’ temple, murmuring against his skin. “We need you. _I_ need you. I…” His eyes close against the weight of the confession on his tongue. “I love you, you great big brute.”

A heartbeat passes, and for once in this god awful, snow-covered wood, Savoy is far from his thoughts. 

“Please don’t make me do this without you, Porthos. I’m not strong enough.”

It’s some time later before Porthos finally stirs. His quiet groan shouldn't be music to Aramis’ ears, but it is, all the same. At least he manages not to choke on air when the pained timbre of Porthos' voice fills the silence to bursting.

“...'Mis?" 

"I'm here, Porthos," Aramis murmurs, carding his fingers through the wounded man's hair.

Porthos lifts a weak, bloodshot gaze to track over Aramis. "Athos?"

Aramis takes a deep breath. That Porthos is more interested in them than his own health is one more thing to add to the list. "Athos is fine. He's back in the clearing with the others, glaring a bandit into submission most likely. Now, hold still, Porthos. _Rest_."

"Bossy," Porthos sighs, likely aiming for long-suffering. Instead, he just sounds beaten.

He doesn't see the bittersweet smile his complaint inspires, but surely he can feel the affection in Aramis’ touch. " _Please_ rest." 

"Better." Porthos rolls his head into the steady stroke of Aramis' hand in his hair and lets his eyes drift shut.

* * *

" _Fuck_ \--...you sneaky little shit."

"Come now. You love me."

"Rubbish."

"You love me. I've heard it from your own mouth."

"...Fine. But that doesn't mean I can't hate you a little bit right now."

" _Porthos_..."

"How long were you hiding behind that bloody door?"

"That's hardly an important detail."

" _How long_ , Aramis?"

"...Long enough to wonder if I should squeeze in a nap. Did you get lost?"

"Shut up, I could've killed you."

"The thought did cross my mind. But the look on your face, Porthos...ah, yes, worth that little bit of risk, I’d say. Now, are you going to keep me here on the floor all day oor..."

"I'm thinkin'."

"In that case, can you think...a little...to the left--Mmm, _yes_. Perfect."

"Not quite. Your tongue's still waggin'." 

"Ah, but you love my wagging tongu--"

* * *

The moon hangs low and heavy, like a fruit ripe for plucking. Aramis has his head in Porthos' lap, and a gentle breeze keeps the air fragrant and cool around them. They left the familiar stench of Paris behind hours ago.

"You're havin' a lark," Porthos smirks, adjusting his position against the tree bark behind him without opening his eyes.

"You wound me, Porthos. When have I ever lied to you?"

"Just this mornin’. You told me d'Artagnan ate everything the cook made for breakfast…”

Aramis flashes an unapologetic grin. "Yes, well. You were refusing to get out of bed. That was more _motivation_ than dishonesty."

The breeze kicks up, pushing Aramis' unruly hair into his face. Porthos cracks one eye open and ruffles the curls back into place. "You could've motivated me some other way."

"I did mention I wanted you _out_ of bed, did I not?"

Laughing helplessly, Porthos shrugs. "Fine. But you're still full of shit."

Aramis covers his heart with a hand and musters up his best offended face. It’s hard to maintain when Porthos is massaging skillful fingers into his scalp. “I am full of many things, Porthos, but _that_ isn’t one of them. I swear to you on everything I hold dear - I swear on _your_ life - I was a painfully _homely_ child.”

Slowly delivering a crooked smile down at the man in his lap, Porthos trails the calloused fingers of his free hand across Aramis’ eyebrows, down his cheek, along the curve of his jaw. A minute ticks by without him saying a word. But his touch, and his stare, speak volumes in a language only Aramis can speak. 

Eventually, Aramis smirks up at him. “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe _you_ think you were any ugly kid. But Aramis…,” Porthos trails off and looks a little embarrassed. It becomes clear when he whispers the rest that it’s the sentimental nature of his response that has him grumbling and shifting uncomfortably beneath Aramis’ head. “You’re beautiful in a hundred different ways. No amount of childhood awkwardness could hide that.”

Warmth seeps from Aramis’ heart outwards, stretching to all points. His gaze is heated, too, overwhelmed even, but he turns his face and nuzzles into Porthos’ palm. “Your flattery is improving.”

Porthos snorts. “I love you, too. _Prick_.”

Chuckling quietly, Aramis stretches to hook his fingers inside the loose collar of Porthos’ shirt and abruptly tugs him down, lifting to meet him halfway for a bruising kiss. It turns tender almost immediately and for once, Aramis isn’t sure who’s leading the way. 

Not that it matters. His heart feels three sizes too big for his chest and the world has narrowed to just Porthos, as it so often does. In this case, he has no reason to fight it. There’s nothing to do. Nowhere to be. No mission looming. Not another soul for miles around.

There is only the two of them, the gently rolling hillside beneath them, and the star-studded sky above.

Aramis thinks he wouldn’t mind if this moment stretched out for days. Weeks. But he’ll settle for wrapping it up tightly in his mind and keeping it with him for the days when everything isn’t nearly so pure.

* * *

Sweat and blood mingle under a wilting summer sun. Porthos isn’t sure how much of the blood is even his, but it hardly matters at this point.

He’s on his knees in the dirt. Unarmed. Bound and gagged. Finished. He keeps his chin high, his back straight, and his stare mutinous, regardless. 

An unflinching pistol stares back at him.

He’d rather have gone out fighting, obviously. But he’d do it all over again to give the others a chance to survive. Athos and d’Artagnan will avenge him, he knows this like he knows the beat of his own heart. Aramis…

Well, Aramis will probably never forgive him, and that thought leaves him swaying more than the ruthless heat. Porthos has to remind himself that Aramis resenting him is better than Aramis dead. He survived Savoy and still opened his heart. He’ll do it again.

Porthos hopes so, anyway.

The gun in his face swings away for a second, but Porthos doesn’t try to take advantage. His leg is throbbing and his arm is a useless dead weight hanging from his shoulder. Even if his hands and feet weren't bound behind him, he wouldn’t get very far. Besides, he hates to run. Rather face death down with a sneer than have it slam into him from behind.

A man collapses into the dirt next to him, face first. In the few seconds it takes the newcomer to struggle upright onto his knees, disbelief and agony tear through Porthos’ chest. 

He doesn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it is. He knows every curve and angle of the man beside him, after all. He thinks, maybe, he might even know Aramis blindfolded, just by the sound of his laboured breathing and the weight of his presence. 

Struggling against his bindings for the first time, Porthos roars into the cloth that gags him and tries, futilely to climb to his feet. 

No. _No_. Not like this. _Not like this_ , his mind screams.

One of his captors bashes a pistol butt against his skull and he rocks backwards. He can hear Aramis trying to say something to him through his own gag, but Porthos doesn’t want to look at him, can’t _bear_ to look at him. It isn’t until Aramis shuffles a little closer on his knees that Porthos forces his eyes open and turns his head.

Porthos could live another thousand years and never forget the look in Aramis’ eyes. 

There may be other emotions there - fury, fear, defeat - but his eyes are stubbornly, unmistakably, full of love. 

Porthos’ wrecked sob is muffled by the gag, but he’s grateful for that much. He can be strong for Aramis. He has to be strong for Aramis. With a desperation born of sheer stubbornness, Porthos blinks away the dampness in his eyes and really _looks_ at the man so much of his adult life has revolved around.

For the first time in a long time, he prays. Not for salvation. Not for peace in the face of certain death. 

Porthos prays that Aramis feels just as loved in return.

Aramis’ expression falters, hopefully because he is moved and not because he doubts, and he leans closer to press their foreheads together, even as the familiar sound of two guns being cocked rings through the stifling air around them.

This close, Porthos can see the flecks of gold buried deep in Aramis’ dark eyes. His jaw clenches and he nuzzles his nose against Aramis’, rubbing their foreheads together. Aramis takes it a step further and kisses him.

Perhaps he's come to the same epiphany that Porthos has - that there is something divine in denying their captors what they want, two broken Musketeers fearfully awaiting their execution. Perhaps he simply wants the last thing he feels to be Porthos' mouth. Whatever the case may be, Porthos cannot, _would never_ , deny him. He leans into Aramis and ignores the men who don't even have the decency to give them an honourable end.

He kisses Aramis and he prays, just one last time, as the barrel of a pistol pushes hard into his temple. He doesn't know if there is an afterlife, but he doubts he's earned a peaceful one, anyway. He prays instead that God forgives Aramis his transgressions and welcomes him with open arms.

There is, after all, no one more deserving.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Samuel Lover.


End file.
